Sex Talk

I am reading Lady Chatterly's Lover (1928) at the moment, partly for academic reasons, partly because I was curious and perhaps mainly because it was standing, unread, among my books. Since I haven't finished it yet, this is not a literature blog entry gone astray. It has merely spawned reflections. In a book where clothes are sometimes shed with a speed that would do justice to cheap German porn, it is almost the discussions about it that are more shocking. And so far, men do all the talking. In a memorable scene Lord Chatterly and friends (mainly the friends) talk very freely about sex, from their various viewpoints. Not until the end of the scene does the author reveal that Lady Chatterly is in the room, listening, but having to remain silent. So who does Lady Chatterly talk to? So far, nobody.
The lack of female communication struck me as one of the main tragedies of Anne Brontë's wonderful The Tenant of Wildfell Hall (1848). Helen falls in love with, and marries, a man because of sexual attraction - against all rather tame advice from people who can see what type of man he is. She lives to regret it, and has to ponder what happened. We get her story from her diary, a gripping narrative, not the least because of the immediacy and closeness of it. But it also contains the tragedy - Helen has never had anyone to talk to, and therefore writes. It becomes clear that the situation is about to repeat itself, when Helen meets a young woman who is in a similar situation as she once was. But the lack of openness in the society they find themselves in means that Helen, rather than openly explain how things may develop, finds herself merely echoing the distant advice that she once received - and did not listen to.
Do we today have equality between the sexes and a full understanding and acknowledgment of gender issues? Not really. But today, women talk.

I was at a birthday party yesterday, and suddenly found myself enmeshed in sex talk with three women I had never met before. We were under the influence, of course. No, not alchohol - nor drugs. Quite simply, sugar. The table had been cleverly hidden under a mountain of buns, cakes, sweets... sugar in all its possible incarnations. We indulged. And were rewarded with a collective sugar rush. I entered their conversation somewhere around new trends in sex-aids and did not leave it until we had pretty much covered the field. We exchanged opinions and experiences about things that we knew about and discussed and pondered things that we did not. (When we entered speculation about the truly kinky an innocent bystander left the room - but I cannot be sure whether the two events were causally linked...) I have of course talked about these things with my friends, in fact I habitually do, but the fact that this conversation happened with complete strangers showed how far we came come. Talking frankly means affirmation and these women shone with a healthy mixture of confidence and curiosity, the perfect mixture, indeed, for being able to have such a conversation at all. The whole experience has left me feeling happy and hopeful about the future of womankind because at the end one thing was cheerfully obvious: we claim our sexuality as our own. And are not afraid to talk about it anymore.

All highs are followed by lows, however, and when I felt the second wave of sugar-induced fatigue (like so many things, sugar makes you go up and then down) I realised that it was time to pedal home. I will always be happy that I was invited to that party - even if my stomach will punish me for that second piece of cheese cake for a while yet. Gluttony certainly is a sin, coming with instant punishment from within. Lust, however, is not.